31 Weeks
by 221Bme
Summary: 31 weeks ago John noticed something wasn't quite right with Sherlock. He'd never eaten during cases before, but is this any different...?
1. Chapter 1

_31 weeks._

Roughly seven months ago.

That's how long ago John had become aware of _the thing_ about Sherlock that was just... _Off._ Something wasn't right, something that John sensed but couldn't quite put his finger on. And of course, Sherlock wasn't going to let on that he knew that John knew, or let him know what was wrong.

Maybe it was just the stress of work getting to his head, John thought. That's probably what it was.

...

_24 weeks._

Five and a quarter months since the realization, and no, it was not just the stress of things. Something was wrong. Maybe Sherlock was sick. Maybe he'd taken up drugs again...? God, John hoped he hadn't.

...

_12 weeks._

Not sick. Not drugs. But not well. Then what?

...

_7 weeks. _

One month and 3 weeks ago. Had it only been that long...? Had it really taken _that_ _long_ for John to see what was going on…? Sherlock wasn't the same man he'd met back when John had returned to civilian life. He wasn't the same old consulting detective he knew so well… But why had it taken so long for him to see it? _Why?_

Maybe if he'd seen it earlier he could have stepped in and stopped it from going this far. From getting this bad. But then again, Sherlock never listened to him anyway. John didn't know how on earth he was going to do it, but he had to get him to talk about it sooner or later. Somehow.

...

_Sunday, December 8__th__._

_The present._

_Sherlock was starving. _

John no longer doubted this fact, seated across from him in the living room as the detective languished on the sofa in his dressing gown and pyjamas.

The heat was on in the flat, but Sherlock was still curled in on himself for warmth, and John noticed. He noticed a lot of things recently.

He noticed, for instance, the way the silk shirt hung on Sherlock's meagre frame, emphasizing just how thin he'd become. The way his spine rose in little ridges at the nape of his neck, and the gauntness in his face. It made John sick to his stomach.

But it made him even sicker to think that what he saw now could have been prevented, if only he'd noticed earlier. 31 weeks earlier.

Seven weeks ago he'd begun keeping track of Sherlock's habits and behaviour patterns concerning food, or the lack thereof. What he'd found was confusing and worrying to him as a doctor, and as Sherlock's friend.

He'd found that, as usual, Sherlock avoided eating during cases. Then he'd also found that at times he avoided it even if there was no case. Then it was all the time. He would become tetchy and snappish if John even mentioned pushing him to eat, citing all sorts of reasons why not to—_too tired, too busy, not feeling well_—none of which John found remotely believable. Tea was the one thing there didn't seem to be any limit on, and Sherlock took full advantage of that.

But of course, a body can't subsist on just tea and oxygen for very long without beginning to show the effects.

It was after John had found him sprawled on the hall floor where he'd fallen, having blacked out, that the doctor decided he wasn't going to take no for an answer anymore. That didn't mean Sherlock was going to stop refusing, either, but something had to be done.

That hadn't ended pleasantly. Sherlock hadn't spoken to him for several days, and John felt horrible for what he'd had to do—the look in Sherlock's eyes had showed pure betrayal and fury—but John had just been scared.

He'd been scared because it looked like Sherlock was dying. _And he was doing it on purpose._

Whether or not that was the actual intent, John wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that he could not let that happen. Not to his consulting detective.

Over the last few weeks John had been forming an idea in his head, a picture of what exactly this _thing_ was that had such a tight grip on Sherlock, and the conclusion he kept coming up with made his chest ache and his head spin.

_Sherlock was starving. On purpose. _

_Sherlock Holmes had an… _

"Eating disorder." John's voice felt much too loud and much too harsh in the sweltering silence of the living room, and he regretted them the moment the words left his lips. It was the first time he'd spoken to him for two days, and the phrase had been tumbling around inside his skull for much longer than that. He'd just had to say it.

And it was probably the worst thing he could have said.

Sherlock didn't respond, but John imagined he could see the jaw tighten, the fists clench. Maybe he hadn't expected a response anyway. Maybe he just needed Sherlock to know beyond a doubt that his flatmate was absolutely aware of what was going on, that he wasn't fooling anyone for even a second.

Not anymore, at least. He'd had everyone in the dark for a very, very long time, before.

Even John, his so-called best friend.

_Why didn't you come to me…?_ John rubbed his burning eyes with the heels of his hands, but it didn't help. Nothing helped anymore. Nothing short of a miracle.

And John's little outburst had been nothing if not the exact opposite of a miracle.

"That's just… I think…" He continued to readjust his hand against his lips and cheek in a vain attempt to find the correct position to rest it in, but it became little more than a nervous tic as he searched for more words. Finally he put his face in his palm and shut his eyes, brows furrowing. "I'm sorry."

_What was he apologizing for…?_ For forcing Sherlock to eat? For forcing him to keep living? No, he had to stop thinking like that. He understood the causes of most eating disorders enough to know that it wasn't a suicide attempt. Not strictly.

Then again, most documented cases seemed to be in young girls who didn't eat because they thought they were fat and ugly.

And that wasn't Sherlock at all, not by a long shot, not even close. He had much too high of an opinion of himself for that.

But if that wasn't it, then… what was it? What had driven him to refuse his body all nutrients, spare the occasional milk in his tea or saltine once in a while? What was it that had reduced him to a mere nine stone (John was estimating) in just 31 weeks?

That _thing_ was a mystery. Perhaps if John had possessed Sherlock's uncanny deduction skills he might have been able to figure it out, but as things stood he was at a complete loss. And it was absolutely devastating.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

Sherlock was supposed to be an arrogant, conceited show-off who didn't give a damn what people thought and didn't quite grasp the idea of manners—but this was not him. This was a Sherlock who had given in to _something_, something that might or might not have already been there when John met him years ago.

It really did feel as though something of Sherlock had been taken from him, but at the same time this _was_ Sherlock, consciously making decisions that would wreak havoc on his own body, and on John's mind and heart.

Didn't Sherlock realize that? Didn't he care that he was doing this? What he was putting him through?

In the back of his mind he was aware that he was blaming Sherlock. That was something he didn't want to do, because he knew his friend couldn't help it—but he also knew that there was something Sherlock could have done. He could have come to John and told him, asked for help, vented, _anythin_g—but no.

No.

Instead, he'd decided to keep it a complete secret and put himself and John through this hell.

This 31 weeks of hell.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sherlock, eat._

_Please eat. _

_It can't be that hard, can it?_

_You're wasting away, just skin and bones. _

_I can't take much more of this. _

_You can't take much more of this. _

_Please. _

_Please eat._

_..._

Sherlock had always been thin. He'd always been pale. Maybe he'd always looked a bit ill, too.

Or maybe John was just too used to it all to remember otherwise.

"So it's really quite obvious, if you'd paid any attention at all, that this was an inside job. Someone the victim knew personally. Talk to her sister again." Sherlock was pulling his gloves back on emphatically as Lestrade nodded and turned to bark orders to Anderson.

John noticed the sudden constriction of Sherlock's pupils, the hard line of his mouth, the way he stopped moving, as if focussing on nothing but consciousness.

He put a hand on the detective's arm. "Sherlock. Are you okay?"

When no answer came he tightened his grip on his arm and looked up at him.

Damn.

Not here.

"Let's go." He didn't wait for a reply and tugged Sherlock toward the sidewalk and led him away down an empty street. He took his pulse inconspicuously as he did so, and was displeased to find it was quick and jumpy.

"Can you look at me? Sherlock. Focus. Deep breath. Don't you pass out on me."

Of course Lestrade had noticed what was happening the last few months.

Everyone had noticed.

They would have to be blind not to.

But they pretended they didn't, for whatever reason, be it trying to preserve his pride, or simply not knowing what on earth to say. John didn't blame them.

Except he did, because his best friend was killing himself slowly and no one could do a damn thing about it.

Sherlock was looking at him, he realized, and he quickly took his pulse again. Better, but still fast.

"Talk to me." His military doctor attitude had kicked in, and he issued commands, not requests. "I need to know you're alert."

"...and say what, exactly? I'm not a trick pony."

"Don't. I'm not playing." John didn't bother to hide the deep scowl that crossed his face, and turned Sherlock's head so he could examine his pupils.

"Oh come on, lighten up." Sherlock blinked and pushed his hands away. "I solved the case. One and a half days. There's a real record you can put on your little blog."

"No, I'm not going to lighten up! Are we going to talk about this or what?" John had crossed his arms over his chest and clenched his teeth stubbornly.

A veil immediately fell over Sherlock's countenance, like a door closing and locking tightly. "What is there to talk about?"

"Don't give me that bullshit! You almost passed out at the scene of a murder just now! That's not nothing!"

"But I didn't, so it's fine."

John's mouth almost fell open, and he bit his tongue to stifle the harsh words that threatened to jump out of his throat and smack the detective in the face with cold reality. "Sherlock, _no_, it is not 'fine!' It's not anywhere close to fine! Not even a little bit! Look, I just-I just want you to be okay, yeah?"

Sherlock frowned. "I am okay."

This was getting too difficult to stifle.

"You're-no, this is-I mean-really? Really? Because from what I just saw, you're far from okay. That's not normal, what just happened. I think you know that. People aren't supposed to just black out randomly like that."

"And I'm not 'people.'" Sherlock shrugged his coat up on his shoulders with finality. "I'm not talking about this."

"You can't just ignore it forever!"

"I can, because there's nothing to ignore."

John's shoulders slumped. He was talking to a brick wall. A rock. Just as helpful as shouting at a piece of wood.

But much, much more infuriating.

He sighed. "Look... Will you at least come with me to get a cup of tea?" _Food would be more like it._ "That might help steady you a little." _No it wouldn't. Hot water and tannin wasn't what Sherlock needed so desperately._

But it would have to do.


	3. Chapter 3

The _clunk_ on the tabletop made Sherlock look up from his paper. He glanced at the bowl of soup in front of him and then up at John, who was standing over him pointedly.

"Is there something I can help you with?" His tone was as sharp as his cheekbones.

"Yeah, you can help me by helping yourself." John set a spoon next to the bowl, pulling out a chair and taking a seat across from him. "And you can start by eating this."

Sherlock made a sound of disgust and hid behind his paper again.

"I'm not kidding." John leaned over the table and pulled the paper down so he could see the detective's face. "I'm dead serious. I don't want a repeat of last week, but one way or another you're going to eat this."

"I'm on a case." He attempted to work the paper out from under John's hands, before finally succeeding in ripping it free.

"You solved it this morning."

"It still counts."

John sighed and leaned his elbows on the table. _The stubborn git..__._

"Sherlock, look at me. I want you to be okay. I've said that before. I'm a doctor, I understand the human body. And I know that this-" He nodded at the bowl. "-is the only way we can ensure that you will be alright."

There was a flicker of something behind Sherlock's eyes as he realised John would not be swayed this time.

It looked like fear.

But Sherlock didn't get scared. Not about silly things like a bowl of soup.

"You're not trying to 'make sure I'm alright.'" Sherlock lay the paper on the table decisively and glared at him.

_Oh?_

"What do you mean? That's _all_ I'm trying to do-you're my best friend! Of course I am!"

"No." He hissed. "No, you're not. You're trying to make me slow and heavy so I can't focus on the important things like_ work_."

John just sat there for a few seconds. "I... Sherlock-what? I'm not-I mean-seriously? When was the last time you ate _anything?_ You can't logically think that I could... That's completely irrational. I'm just trying to help you. Honestly. I promise."

"Don't talk to me about irrational!" He pushed his chair back, getting up and going for his coat. "I didn't ask for your help and I don't need it. I'm going to look for a new case."

Another case would only be another excuse not to eat.

John got to his feet quickly. "But, Sherlock-"

"Transport, John. Transport." He shrugged on his coat and fixed the collar.

This was getting ridiculous.

"I'll call someone!"

This made Sherlock pause and turn his eyes back to him slowly. "Who would you possibly call?"

"I..." _He probably should have planned a little farther ahead._ "Someone to help you."

"Oh please." Sherlock rolled his eyes, sensing the uncertainty. "You wouldn't do that. It isn't necessary. I wouldn't do it anyway."

_Not much to work with there._

"Well I'm bloody well not going to just stand here and watch you wither away!"

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not withering! I'm on_ fire!_" He shot him one of his self-assured half-smiles and continued on out the door.

Only today it wasn't as reassuring as it used to be.

John stood in the doorway and watched him go, mentally kicking himself for having failed yet again to make him see-to somehow get him to open his damn eyes and accept a bit of help.

Sherlock was always stubborn.

But this was something else.


End file.
